


chasing shadows off the doorway

by bookhobbit



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Demisexuality, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Oral Sex, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-05 00:01:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13375851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookhobbit/pseuds/bookhobbit
Summary: Childermass is still an enigma to Segundus. His unexpected appearance in Segundus's bedchamber has not clarified the matter.





	chasing shadows off the doorway

**Author's Note:**

> Umm....I don't want to tag this consent issues because I think that gives a different impression than what's going on, but there are some, in a "your care and concern are strong but not as strong as my self destructive impulses are" way, so please heed that. Also mentions of past sex work. 
> 
> I don't know what I was trying to do with this except some weird metaphorical venting and it's really not much like what I usually write but I hope it's enjoyable.

There's something about late October that suits Childermass. Segundus doesn't know if it's his twisted face and raggedy hair, which have an autumnal air, or if it's the smoky smell that his pipe produces, which reminds Segundus of bonfires. Or perhaps it's the crisp cool air, sharp as his wit. 

It's these sentimental thoughts that occupy him his first half-term holiday. The school is small, but thriving; his pupils have gone home for a well-deserved rest. 

The autumn winds have blown Childermass and Vinculus in from their tour of English magicians. "We'll be conducting business nearer," says Childermass, "until the weather starts to turn again."

"I shan't go traveling about the country in blustery weather only to undress when I arrive," says Vinculus. "Bad for a man's health."

"Well, please do stay as long as you like," says Segundus. "Stay the winter if you have the need. There's room enough to spare."

It's not the first time he's extended the invitation, which is why Childermass always comes back, furtive like a fox, bowing politely and asking whether they may impose on Segundus's hospitality. Segundus chides him every time, and extends the invitation again.

It's nice to have a magical colleague close by for discussion. Mr Honeyfoot is an excellent conversationalist, and only a short walk across to the village away; nevertheless, there's something challenging about Childermass that Segundus likes.

Segundus thinks with a certain ruefulness that he likes Childermass very much.

The house seems wild and empty when there are no children in it. The wind blowing and banging at the windows and doors feels fiercer, more like something out of a fairy-story. It's good to have company, even if company sometimes involves Vinculus sprawled out in front of the fire without clothes while Childermass studies something written on his left hip.

At the moment, there's no such disturbances. Vinculus is dressed as properly as he ever is, sitting in a chair with a hot cup of tea. Childermass is in the chair beside Segundus, lit in profile by the fire. If he seems a little distracted, Segundus puts it down to the travel. Segundus has a book, but he's not paying it any attention. Conversation, rarer, is more engaging at the moment. 

He goes to bed early, urging his guests to rest. But he's awake again at midnight, as he usually is. It often comes like this, so that he sleeps for a few hours, wakes for an hour, then goes back to sleep. 

Stretching, he lights a candle and picks up the article by his bedside. The magical symbolism of the colour green is sufficiently engaging that when he hears a knock at the door, he doesn't register it until some minutes later.

Segundus frowns, and calls "Come in."

Behind the door is Childermass in shirtsleeves, his hair loose. He ventures through the sitting room, into the bedroom, standing in the doorway.

"Is everything all right?" says Segundus, taking in his disheveled appearance.

"I was walking in the garden and I saw your light on."

"You were walking in the garden at midnight?"

"Best time for it," says Childermass, but his casualness is too studied to be real. Segundus peers at him. 

"You're not drunk," he says.

"No."

"Well...may I help you with something?"

Childermass seems to hesitate. Despite the way he's dressed, he looks taut, as if something is drawing him in and in to himself. Venturing in a little, his moves seem jerky, his steps unsteady. Segundus would ask again if he is drunk, but there's no smell of alcohol, and anyway...that's not what it's like. It's not the careful movements of a drunk man trying to look sober. It's the way you look when you're desperately unhappy, and not quite containing it enough.

His alarm rises. "Childermass, if you're in trouble--"

"That's not it." Closer, and closer, and closer. He's standing beside the bed, looking down at Segundus. The candlelight makes him seem more than half a ghost, and Segundus wonders if he didn't wake at all, if this is a dream. As Childermass sits very carefully down on the bed, this seems increasingly likely.

"Well, what is it, then?"

Childermass tilts his head just a little. One hand delicately traces the line of Segundus's cheekbone, and Segundus's breath catches. He's struck still, the way an animal will be when it's prey of something larger than it, and yet he doesn't  _ feel  _ like prey. He feels like a sculpture in front of an artist just putting the finishing touches on it.

When the kiss comes, he's expecting it, because really, there is nothing else this could have been leading to. Now wholly convinced this can't be real, he throws himself into it. Perhaps he'll forget in the morning, or perhaps halfway through Childermass will turn into mist, and so, here, now, he must enjoy it.

There's something strangely insubstantial about Childermass when you touch him. Maybe it's the way he looks stripped of greatcoat and coat, or maybe it's the care with which he touches back. His fingers barely brush through Segundus's hair, just touch one hip. He kisses the same way, cautious, as if there is some danger he needs to contain.

"You're sure--" says Segundus, breaking. There is so much hesitance here, and that is not how he likes to begin his encounters.

"Do you not want this?" says Childermass. He kisses Segundus again, less delicately this time. "I've seen..."

Segundus, with effort, pulls himself away again. "It's you I would like to be sure of."

Childermass blows out the candle and kisses him again by way of answer, which Segundus supposes must be a yes. He gives himself over, takes Childermass's waistcoat in his fists and pulls him closer. Childermass is biddable, which is strange but thrilling, so Segundus pulls him down onto the bed, down on top of him.

Childermass's wandering fingers find the hem of Segundus's nightshirt. "Can I?"

Segundus nods. So caught up is he in the moment, so convinced this can't be real, that he doesn't think to be wary. Childermass rucks the shirt up to the waist, shifts so that he's astride Segundus and pulls it off. He registers a moment's surprise when he sees Segundus's body, but he doesn't react otherwise; he just runs his hands down Segundus's waist. So it must be a dream, and it's all right.

Segundus immediately begins pulling at Childermass's waistcoat buttons, though he's distracted somewhat by Childermass kissing him again. He loses himself in it, the weight of Childermass against him. The surprisingly tentative touch of those hands is growing steady, sure, landing here and there and dragging out sparks. Childermass's lips move down too, and though this too is distracting, Segundus renews his efforts to get Childermass unclothed.

"I want--" he says, tugging at Childermass's neckcloth.

Childermass wordlessly complies, and between the two of them he's soon as bare as Segundus is. Segundus doesn't have time to admire him, not that the faint glow of the moonlight permits more than a grainy night-view. If only he'd left the candle lit. But Segundus ought not complain, because Childermass is again working his way down Segundus's body. His hands and mouth have all the deliberateness he uses when he reads a spell, and that's how Segundus feels, full of magic. Transported. 

Must be a dream, he thinks vaguely. John Childermass, wry, reserved, and unfathomable, would never have come here. There are some things you can't hope for.

Then Childermass shifts, so that he's lying instead of sitting, elbows propping himself up. He's moving lower, and lower, and oh, Segundus curls his toes with anticipation--

"May I?" says Childermass, with an ironical look upward.

"Please," says Segundus.

Childermass takes the permission as given, and as the untamed feeling builds in Segundus, he thinks, no, it can't be a dream. A dream wouldn't feel like this. A dream has never felt like this. He hooks one leg around Childermass, and clutches the sheets. A dream would be faintly pleasurable, in an unspecified way, not concentrated like this. 

He can't care anymore which it is, because it doesn't matter. It only matters that it's happening, somehow. 

He arches upward, seeking, and Childermass lets him. He steadies Segundus with hands on his waist, rubbing slow circles as his mouth works. Segundus is making wordless little noises, aware of it and feeling faintly indecent with it, but not sure he minds. He's sure they're not loud enough to hear outside the room.

It gets harder as it builds and builds. He wants to turn his head into the pillow and muffle himself, but he can't, not without disrupting Childermass. He covers his own mouth with his hand, instead. Childermass looks up briefly, his eyes dark, smiles his crooked smile, and carries on taking Segundus to pieces.

Afterward, Segundus takes a minute or two to breathe. Childermass is looking at him again, with faint unsureness, and Segundus gestures, inviting him upward.

He comes up, rests his head on Segundus's shoulder. A strangely vulnerable gesture, which Segundus catalogues, wanting to remember it.

After Segundus is recovered a little, Childermass shifts. "I ought to go, then--"

"Oh," says Segundus, "Wait, I want to--" He scoots down, feeling very undignified at the moment, and looks up at Childermass. Unconsciously he echos Childermass: "May I?"

There's a look on Childermass's face that Segundus can't quite trace, but wariness plays a large part in it. "You don't have to."

"I won't if you don't want me to."

"I..." Childermass trails one hand down Segundus's cheek. "Yes. All right."

This is not the enthusiastic reaction Segundus's paramours have generally given. "You are quite sure? You sound hesitant. I won't be put out if you don't want it."

"No. I'm sure. I wasn't expecting it, that's all."

"It's only good manners," says Segundus, and begins his work. He nearly misses Childermass's soft laugh, and he doesn't have an interest in taking offense at it. He wonders precisely what Childermass's other lovers had done. Had none even offered? Had Segundus seemed such a cad as to be unwilling? 

Of course if one found the act distasteful--then he is far too busy to continue this train of thought. There's too much to do, learning what Childermass likes, combining his own previous knowledge with careful observation. Listening to the soft noises, as Childermass runs his fingers through Segundus's hair. Finding what creates the most satisfying reaction, teasing these reactions out like pearls.

That strange pliability is back, Childermass's movements liquid and loose now in contrast to the earlier stiffness. His eyes are screwed shut, his head back. The moonlight illuminates the lines of his neck. Like a painting, thinks Segundus, though it would be a singularly indelicate subject for a painting. Perhaps something Greek or Roman on a vase--

Childermass breathes  _ Christ _ , which distracts Segundus considerably from his chain of thought. He shifts a little, and his hands in Segundus's hair go slack. Some last bit of control seems to leave him as he swears again,  _ fuck  _ this time. Segundus, with delight, slides his hands up to Childermass's hips to hold him gently in place as he finishes.

When Segundus crawls back up the bed, Childermass is still in that same state of rawness, some ever-present element of distance gone. Segundus looks at him for a very long time, wanting to remember this.

"You could make a sketch, the length of time you've been looking," says Childermass at last.

"I'd like to," says Segundus.

Childermass makes a scoffing noise and sits up on his elbows.

"That was quite all right?" says Segundus anxiously.

Childermass nods, and, unexpectedly, kisses his forehead. "Aye." He hooks an arm over the other side of the bed, comes back up with his shirt.

"You can stay," says Segundus. "There's no-one to see. No-one comes in the mornings, and since the students are home, you can go back to your room after you wake up."

Childermass hesitates, then puts the shirt down.  "All right," he says.

"Of course I won't be offended if you'd rather leave--"

"No," says Childermass. "I'll stay. I'd like to stay."

Segundus, inclined to be content with this, burrows under the covers and goes to sleep.

He wakes up in the morning with the strangest feeling -- excitement, or dread. It kicks in even before he's fully conscious.

Rolling over, he remembers, opens his eyes, expecting to see Childermass beside him. Already he's flustered a little with the memory. 

But the bed is empty. Segundus blinks. It had been a dream, then. He rubs his forehead and looks around. Or maybe Childermass had gone back to his room?

He gets dressed and goes down for breakfast, not sure what else to do. Does he mention it? But only Vinculus is there, looking bleary-eyed and eating bacon and eggs.

"Where is Childermass?" says Segundus, sitting down beside him.

"He went off at some absurd hour of the morning to investigate a village with a shrieking tree three miles away." Vinculus pinches his mouth together. "'s why I'm up at such an unreasonable time. He felt the need to tell me."

Segundus feels something strike in his chest, a single pure note. It's that dread-or-excitement feeling again, but now it's leaning decidedly towards dread. "Did he leave any message for me?"

"Said to tell you not to expect him for a few days. And that he hoped you didn't mind lodging me til then."

"I suppose you didn't want to see a screaming tree," says Segundus. He's rather proud of himself for how calmly he's acting. With hands that are perfectly steady he pours a cup of tea.

"I'm a delicate type," says Vinculus, taking a huge mouthful of egg.

So occupied is Segundus that he doesn't even think to question this outrageous statement.

-

Segundus spends most of the rest of the short holiday in a fog. It's a perfectly valid reason, the sort of thing Childermass is always going off to see, which makes Segundus suspect he really was dreaming, and the events of the night are not memory but imagination. 

Yet he's reasonably certain the experience had too much verisimilitude for a dream--even his dreams of a less respectable nature are never so vivid and so coherent. He blushes to remember precisely how vivid it had been, how immersed in the moment he had felt.

Perhaps he wouldn't feel quite so disoriented were it not half-term. He has his research, but without students to teach, he feels unsettlingly idle, and free to spend all his time thinking.

Which is unhelpful.

Childermass returns two days later, Vinculus grumbling lightly about his rest being over. Like a shadow, he always seems near Segundus, but like a shadow, Segundus never seems to be able to pin him down.

A week wears on, and then two. Segundus convinces himself that it must have been a dream, or Childermass would have said something. He can't catch Childermass alone at breakfast time even on weekends when the students sleep late, nor can he seem to find the time to pin him down. He doesn't want to know, really.

Which makes it all the more difficult when Childermass comes upon him late one evening, sitting in a bench in the garden and enjoying the crisp night air. It's cold, but he's wrapped up warm. He likes feeling the chilliness of the air, the encroaching breath of winter, safe in the knowledge that he now has a warm home to go back to, a fire he doesn't have to stint on.

Childermass is humming faintly, hands in his pocket. Segundus hears it, recognizing the voice if not the tune, and wants to hide, but before he can, Childermass is upon him.

He stops dead in front of Segundus's bench.

"Hello," says Segundus. 

Childermass looks at him for a while. "Mr Segundus."

"It's a fine night," says Segundus, taking refuge in inanities.

"Fine enough," says Childermass. He looks around, and shuffles backwards a little. Segundus gestures at him to sit. He can't help himself, he does so desperately want to be near Childermass again. He ought not let his wicked imagination spoil things, if imagination it was.

There's another long stretch of silence. The last bit of sunset is just fading over the horizon, so Segundus watches it for some time, unsure of what else to do.

"When you were here last--" says Segundus.

Childermass flinches a little and then Segundus knows. He knows it was real, because the raw discomfort in Childermass's posture, the quick flick to Segundus's mouth, these wouldn't have happened otherwise.

"Oh," says Segundus. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." He moves to stand up, thinks the better of it, and turns. "I really am so sorry."

"No," says Childermass. "Don't. It was me, really. I--"

"What you must think of me," says Segundus. In the confusion, he's quite forgotten that Childermass came to him first. He stands at last, but can't make himself stride away; should he apologise again? Should he simply leave?

Childermass, rising, reaches out with one hand and catches his arm. Segundus turns, finds himself face to face with Childermass. 

Oh, no.

There's a soft moment, a moment where only the rustling of the leaves in the wind can be heard, a moment where everything seems warm despite the weather. A moment where Segundus can see what he's about to do, but not stop himself, because he wants to know, he wants to be told that Childermass wanted it too, to be reassured that it was not a mistake.

He leans in and kisses Childermass and, wonder of wonders, Childermass meets him halfway. It's a kiss of astonishing delicacy and chastity in comparison with their previous adventures, filled with the tentativeness of new exploration. As if Childermass has never kissed him before. And perhaps it's different when there's still a hint of daylight left, when they are not wholly shrouded.

They regard each other warily.

"It wasn't a dream," says Segundus.

"No," says Childermass, rueful. Segundus wishes he didn't have to hear this.

"You left. You didn't even leave a note."

Childermass opens his mouth, then shuts it. It's rare to see him at a loss for words, but the occasion brings Segundus no joy. Finally, Childermass says "As it was a mistake on my part, I thought it best I should leave you in peace. With no reminder."

"Was it...my body?" he asks, curling in a little on himself. "Of course I understand that some find the concept unsettling but at the time you seemed--"

Childermass frowns and tilts his head. "Your body? What about it?"

"My...anatomy."

For some reason, this makes Childermass look pained, though Segundus feels it's his own domain to feel pained in. "Of course not. You're not the first--never mind."

"Was I not skilled enough? I know my level of experience is, perhaps, nothing compared to yours." Too late, Segundus wonders if he's inadvertently called Childermass a rake.

Childermass gives a short laugh. "I doubt that. No, your skill was more than adequate." Then he pauses, and frowns again. "You had--this wasn't--"

"I do have  _ some _ experience, if that's what you're worried about." Segundus feels slightly indignant that this was not apparent, despite his own speech, perhaps because  _ more than adequate _ sounds more like a review of a new magical theorum than praise for a lover.

Childermass looks relieved. "It was nothing you did or are or were."

"Then why?"

Childermass scrubs a hand through his own hair; Segundus notices the dark circles under his eyes are darker than usual. His shoulders are held low with weariness. What could be making him sleep poorly? Is he feeling guilty?

"I can't tell you that," he says. "It wasn't your fault, that's all I can tell you. You must accept that I am a man of contrary habits. I'm sorry for having caused you pain."

Segundus doesn't want Childermass to apologise; he wants Childermass to tell him that he did it because he couldn't resist Segundus, because he needed Segundus, because he wanted Segundus. He wants Childermass to tell him that he's important, and that it meant something, even if it was something nonsensical or even something unflattering. He wants Childermass back in his bed, or out of Starecross for good, or even just friends with him again. Speechless, he can't tell Childermass any of this.

In the intervening time, Childermass's mouth crumples into a grimace. Perhaps he thinks Segundus is angry--which he is--or unwilling to forgive--which he's not. It would take only a few words.

But Childermass doesn't offer them. He looks hesitant, tilts his head a moment. He puts his hands in the pockets of his greatcoat, and then strides off, back towards the house.

Segundus isn't surprised to find him gone the next day.

-

This time, he tries to abide his soul in stillness, to see if it helps. In truth, the smallest part of him, the core, is terrifically impatient. Virtually vibrating with the desire to see Childermass again, and demand the truth from him, possibly. Just seeing him again would be something.

He gives it time. Childermass is wild, that's what he's always thought. With wild things, you have to move slowly. It takes patience and care to show them that your intentions are friendly.

Mr and Mrs Honeyfoot keep inviting him to their house in the village, with a determined good cheer that says they know he's upset even though they don't know why. It heartens him a little, and makes it easier to wait.

"I know you miss Mr Childermass's company when he neglects you," says Honeyfoot. "After all, you two were the first magicians of the new era. But you'll have to settle for us, until then."

Segundus smiles a little. "You are both excellent company, always. There is no settling involved."

Despite that, he does feel restless--looking for something more, maybe. A mystery in front of him, and no way to solve it. What is there to Childermass but mysteries with no answers? He should forget, and move on.

Telling yourself that never helps.

Childermass returns on a fine September morning, cool and crisp with the promise of sunlight later on in the day. It's a Thursday, which, unfairly, means he has a day of lectures ahead of him before he can go and find Childermass and take whatever action he wants. This was probably intentional. Maybe he's going to come in, look at a book, and leave before Segundus can locate him.

He makes it through the lessons rather distracted; he calls Martin Pale Jacques Belasis once, to his own vexation. He comforts himself with the thought that his students are used to this, even if it's more commonly a magical problem occupying him than personal matters.

He fully expects his own pessimistic prophecies to come through, so after his lessons, he drags himself to his little sitting-room and plops himself glumly in a chair. No point in seeking out Childermass. If Childermass wants him, he had better come in himself.

While he's reading a book and drinking a half-cold cup of tea, trying and failing to distract himself, a knock at the door makes him jump in his chair.

It's probably one of the pupils. They come, sometimes, to ask for help or advice. He opens the door, with his teacher expression--a combination of goodwill and benevolent sternness--affixed firmly to his face.

Childermass looks at him with a decidedly unpupilish air. Segundus's mouth opens, then he swallows. "Good day," he says.

"Good day," says Childermass.

Segundus stares some more. He seems to have forgotten, somehow, how tall Childermass is, how queer and dark his eyes are, how crooked his nose is, how tangled his hair is. He has, in short, forgotten how intense the experience of Childermass is. It's only been a few weeks, but he's overwhelmed with a rush of emotion. Anger, gladness, a sick nervousness that makes him feel dizzy.

"May I come in?" Childermass asks.

Segundus steps back, and keeps going back, until he feels his chair under him and flops into it.

"Are you well?" says Childermass, giving him a look.

"No," says Segundus.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

Segundus takes a sip of his tea. So distracted is he that he doesn't think to offer Childermass any, but then, he's not sure Childermass deserves it.

"You came back," says Segundus, breaking a long silence.

Childermass looks as though he's trying out various replies: expressions pass quickly across his face, and he shapes beginnings of words and doesn't finish them. Again, Segundus is left with no pleasure at the sight of him lost for words. He settles, finally, on "I did," which to Segundus seems short for the amount of care put into it.

He tries to remember his desire to be patient. If he waits long enough, will Childermass come out with something?

It takes a very, very long five minutes before anything happens. Segundus is starting to wonder whether he should just resume his book and let Childermass make his own way out, when Childermass says, "I came back because I thought it would please you more than my staying away."

"Does pleasing me matter?" says Segundus.

"Yes."

Segundus squeezes his eyes shut, and sighs. "I hope you will not take it ill if I say that I wish you had realized it earlier."

"I know," says Childermass. "I am sorry."

"Will you talk to me?"

"As far as I can."

Segundus stands, and gestures him into the bedroom. "It's more private. I don't want to be overheard."

Childermass nods. Segundus, overwrought, half expects him to say something lewd about the location, but of course that's not Childermass. It's the person people think Childermass ought to be, and the opposite of what he really is.

Which is the problem, really, or at least part of the problem. Childermass is wild, but not beastly. He shies away the way wild creatures do, but he's never crude, and he never expects you to be tamer than he is. He takes your own wildness in his stride, and in doing so, brings you into his world.

Segundus closes the bedroom door firmly. "Why did you leave?"

Childermass slumps against the wall. Segundus hates seeing him like this, defeated and tired. Childermass deserves to be sly, clever, distant from everything and yet somehow aware of it all, the way he looks from the outside, all the time. Seeing him in sorrow feels unfair.

"I left because it was better for the both of us if I did not stay."

"You didn't ask me."

"You don't have all the information."

"You could tell me."

Childermass rubs his eyes. "If I'd controlled myself it would have been better for us both," he says, half to himself.

"If you found the experience so distasteful, why do you keep repeating it?" Segundus asks. He refuses to let the tears seep out the corners of his eyes. He won't.

"You don't understand at all," says Childermas, more weary than upset. Obscurely, this infuriates Segundus all the more. Is he not even worth anger?

"Perhaps you could explain it to me," says Segundus. "Am I not owed that much? For--for what we--for what we shared?"

Childermass looks stricken, which makes Segundus feel slightly better; at least the emotion isn't all on his side. "I do not know how to begin, and I cannot help feeling you would be better off not knowing."

"I'm not a child," says Segundus.

"I know," says Childermass, "But you're a gentleman."

This, this is the last straw that Segundus's frayed nerve can bear. He tries so hard to be a patient man, but there is only so much someone can endure. He's rapidly moving beyond that, and so, and so, he makes a very bad decision. He stands on his toes, and he kisses Childermass.

He's half-expecting to be pushed away, disgusted with himself for trying again, but Childermass's reaction startles him: he groans softly and pulls him closer, bends to bring himself down to Segundus's height. Segundus, not appeased, bites Childermass's lip hard, and Childermass stumbles a little against Segundus's bedroom wall. Segundus vividly remembers what they'd done when last in this room, and feels heat thrill all over him. He pushes Childermass harder against the wall, so that his breath rushes out, and relishes the sense of control it brings. Childermass makes a low frustrated sound and clutches his waist, hands spasming.

"If you want something you'll have to ask for it," says Segundus, deliberately cold. Childermass grabs him, flips them, and  _ lifts _ him against the wall, slamming him the way he had Childermass. Segundus mouths oh Lord, oh Lord, as Childermass skims his lips across his jaw, kissing just where it meets his throat. This is far too much like something out of his most absurd and unrealistic and gut-wrenchingly appealing dreams. He wraps his legs around Childermass, yanks his hair back hard and guides Childermass's mouth to his throat.

His breath rushes out with a hiss as Childermass takes the strong hint and kisses as much of his neck as the collar and neckcloth will allow. The stubble stings a little, and the rational part of Segundus fears a rash, but he's not willing to pull Childermass off and warn him. If need be he'll go for a walk in the woods afterwards and say he'd fallen on a patch of something, or, or, or anything, anything to keep Childermass where he is. Childermass, with what Segundus considers great presence of mind, reaches up and unties his neckcloth, then unfastens his collar. This leaves him with a delightful amount of bare skin to be exploited, and Childermass takes advantage of this with admirable alacrity. Segundus's head thumps against the wall as Childermass's lips trace a slow, shivery path down from his jaw to the edge of his shirt. 

Childermass puts him down again, perhaps so that he can use his hands properly, and Segundus takes advantage of the occasion to stop him and kneel in front of him.

"Can I?" he asks, looking up at Childermass. He wants so very much to take, to learn, to know, and he wants Childermass to come undone beneath him the way he had that first night, the way Segundus had never seen before.

Childermass's eyes are wide and he looks, almost, frightened. He reaches out and touches Segundus's cheek carefully, with that same sense of fragility that Segundus noticed earlier, only this time it's not as though Segundus will break but as though Childermass will.

It's not an encouraging answer. Segundus feels sick, suddenly aware that he's made this go wrong again. He sways a little, and Childermass's other arm on his shoulder steadies him. It's worse, somehow.

"I can't," says Childermass, "I'm sorry."

Segundus shakes his head, meaning that Childermass isn't the one who should apologise, he is. He'd brought Childermass here to ask for clarification but now he's even more at sea, more lost, more miserable. Stupid, he tells himself. There are tears again but he won't let them show. He's been humiliated, humiliated himself, enough for one day.

Childermass's hand is still on his cheek; he pushes it away, stands up. "I'm very sorry to have thrown myself at you," he says, tasting the bitterness in the words and not able to soften them. "It was undignified of me."

"No," says Childermass, "It wasn't."

"Why do you keep--" says Segundus. He shakes his head. "Never mind. I'm sorry. I'll leave, and you can leave, and it'll all keep going around again, but I won't do anything foolish, not again." He wants to tell Childermass not to leave, but he knows that won't do any good. Childermass isn't his, not in any capacity, so he will probably do it just to be contrary. Segundus feels the lack of hold between them, the flimsiness of the connection, his own longing for something more, and hates himself for it.

"I'm sorry," says Childermass again.

"I don't want you to apologise," says Segundus, wrapping his arms around himself. 

Childermass looks as though he wants to say something else, probably another apology. Another sign that he regrets the intimacy between them. He reaches out, and Segundus can't bear it, so he flees. It's his bedroom, but he can't stay and be pitied.

He goes to the garden, taking the servants' stair to remain unseen, and stays there until he's sure Childermass is gone.

-

When he emerges, he is quite sure Childermass has left. The evening is growing dark, and all the students are gathering in knots and drifting inside the house. A few of them wave at them as he wanders on in, and he waves back. He won't let his feelings make him unapproachable; they deserve better.

"Mr Childermass wasn't here long," Timothy Davies ventures as he passes.

Segundus attempts a smile, but he's aware it's a little weak. "He's a very busy man."

"He left Vinculus, though," says Timothy Davies. "I saw him going into the kitchen."

"I hope he's not bothering the cook for the sherry," says Segundus, to disguise his own puzzlement. "I'll go and see."

Vinculus isn't bothering the cook, Miss Cooper for her sherry; he's what could best be described as sweet-talking her, and she's flapping him with a towel in good humour and telling him to get on. She looks up when he comes in.

"Is he troubling you?" says Segundus.

"No mor'n usual, sir," says Miss Cooper. "Are you well?"

"Yes, thank you. Vinculus, did you escape Childermass when he left? Are we to send you to the nearest inn again?"

"I'm not a fugitive," says Vinculus. "He left me apurpose. Said he'd be back or else he'd send for me. What I say is, a man needs a holiday, doesn't he? I'm not complaining."

Segundus agrees, still feeling wholly adrift. He climbs the stairs to his bedroom, now more puzzled than hurt. When he arrives, there's a letter on his bed. It says:

_ Sir,  _

_ I apologise for the abrupt nature of my departure, but after our last argument, I thought you might not wish to have the sight of my face to vex you. As such, I have left Starecross for York to attend to some business. However, I have, as you see, left my Book as a deposit.  _

_ It is only fair to you to give some explanation of my behavior, as you yourself pointed out. I am unwilling to commit it to paper. If you chuse endure the sight of my countenance again, you may write me at the provided address and summon me back immediately. If you do not write, I will assume I have trod upon your feelings badly enough that you do not wish to see me. I will collect my Book and never darken your doors again. If even this thought is too much for you, I will provide an inn to which you may escort Viculus, from whence I will collect him later. _

The last line is blotched, as if Childermass had started then stopped several times. It say, _ I never intended to hurt you. _

_ Yrs Cordially, _

_ John Childermass _

 

Segundus reads the letter three times, each time with increasing desperation. The envelope has the sign of the Old Stare Inn on it. Hastily, his fingers shaking, Segundus writes his own letter.

It has three lines:

_ Childermass, _

_ Come back  _ _ immediately _ _.  _

_ John Segundus _

-

Childermass returns the next morning. Segundus tries not to be distracted again, and does manage not to exchange any names, although he forgets to assign reading. At least this is the sort of mistake the pupils will be pleased by. They can make it up later. Right now, he doesn't care, which he knows is a terribly unprofessional attitude. If this isn't solved soon, he may have to resign in shame.

Childermass is waiting in his sitting-room when he goes up, clutching a pot of tea which he fetched from the kitchen in a rush. "I thought I locked the door," says Segundus.

Childermass looks briefly shifty. "I thought it would be more discreet this way."

"The lock isn't broken, is it?"

"I have no intention of damaging your property."

Segundus sits down in his chair. "Tea?" Now that the moment has come, he's deliberately putting it off, afraid of what he might hear.

"Thank you."

Pouring tea for Childermass feels absurdly formal and absurdly polite. They sit in silence for a moment, cups in hands.

"Have we done our duty to society?" says Chilldermass at last, taking a sip.

Segundus laughs softly. "I suppose I don't know what to ask you, now."

Childermass looks at his tea for some time. "We could start with me saying you were right. I do owe you some sort of explanation. I can't promise it's one you'll understand or one you think will justify what I've done."

"I just want a reason," says Segundus, quietly. "I know you didn't intend to harm me." He wants to say, _ I know you're a gentle man _ , but he thinks Childermass would laugh. It's true, though. Segundus has seen Childermass with Brewer, with the students, has kissed Childermass and felt his care.

"Intent is one thing," says Childermass, half to himself. "I'd have told you before, last time. Only, well."

"I interrupted," say Segundus in a small voice.

"I didn't complain, you'll notice. I could have stopped you, but I didn't want to." A frown of pain. "I should have."

Segundus, who has been doing some rapid calculation, attempts to spare Childermass the awkwardness of bringing a tender subject up. "Are you in mourning?"

"Am I  _ what _ ?"

"Well, it's not very long since Strange and Norrell left. Perhaps you and he were close," says Segundus.

Childermass raises an eyebrow. "You have a much nastier mind than I've given you credit for."

"I'm sorry."

"No. It was a compliment. I'm not in mourning. I won't say you're wrong on some points, but that's not the problem." Childermass rubs his forehead. "It's the newness that's the trouble."

Segundus tilts his head. "Is it your first time with men? I would have thought, er, with your previous--"

"No, he didn't like that sort of thing. I've had other men," says Childermass, "but it's not the same."

"I'm sorry?" says Segundus, beginning to feel exasperated. "Did you not enjoy it, or..."

"They weren't for  _ me _ to enjoy," says Childermass. "Excepting insofar as I enjoy not starving."

Segundus is ashamed of his own shocked silence. Of course such things go on. Of course Childermass had had a few very lean years before Norrell, he'd picked that up here and there. "I'm so sorry," he says.

"It's why I didn't want to tell you," says Childermass. "I knew you'd react like that. I expect you're thinking of it as horrors. It's no more horrible than stealing, which I've also done to avoid starving. But it required a certain detachment of mind."

Segundus still doesn't understand, and it must show on his face. He bites his lips and asks, "You don't like--?"

"I don't, usually," says Childermass. "That is, it's been more in the nature of work than play. When I used to do it, I'd shut myself down and get on with it. Get a bit drunk, sometimes, to make it easier. It wasn't awful work if you got paid well."

Part of Segundus wants to ask about whether Childermass had felt violated, and if he had been hurt, all sorts of sensationalistic things like that, but he thinks he's beginning to understand that these aren't the terms Childermas thinks of things in. Besides, they're personal questions, and he hasn't earned the right. He says "I'm glad you told me, but I don't understand what happened between us."

Childermass stares down at his own hands. "You have to understand, I've been fucked by people before, but I've never been that far in my own head at the same time. It was very...surprising."

Segundus stares at him helplessly. "You ran away because you enjoyed it too much?"

Childermass looks up at the ceiling in contemplation. "I wouldn't put it like that, but it's not wrong."

"Oh," says Segundus. "Well. That is to say, one always likes to know one's skill is appreciated."

"How I'd put it," says Childermass, the words tumbling out of him at the speed of impulse, "is I've never tried it with anyone I cared about before."

Stillness. Segundus feels frozen at the words, but not because they're unwelcome. It's the sort of frozen you get when you see a rabbit in a hedge and you want to watch it, and if you move it'll run off. This seems to discourage Childermass, so Segundus blurts out, without thinking, "I'm glad to have been of service."

Childermass squints at him.

"Dear god," says Segundus. "I couldn't conduct this worse if I made a dedicated attempt. The feeling is mutual. I care for you too. That's why I was so upset, you see. I could have you as a friend, or as a lover, but I couldn't stand being neither and both at the same time, which is what it seemed to amount to."

Childermass sighs. "It wasn't fair of me really. I came to you because I was low and you were there, and it seemed the easiest way."

"The easiest way of what?"

"Controlling something. Which I couldn't, as it turns out."

Segundus remembers the look on Childermass's face when he'd asked. A look of wariness. He winces. "Should I have let you go?"

"No," says Childermass. "I could have left. I almost did. But I wanted to see, because it was different. And then--" He looks into his teacup again. The silence stretches on, dense, airless. 

"Did I hurt you?" says Segundus. 

"Well. No." Childermass runs a thumb over the rim of his teacup. "I'm not being very clear because it's not very easy to explain. "I...wanted a distraction. From other things I didn't want to dwell on. I thought if I came to you I could get out of my head. Even thought it  _ might  _ hurt, and that would help too. But it didn't, and I couldn't get out of my head, and it unsettled me."

"So you left to try and sort things out?" Segundus thinks he understands that. He even thinks he understands Childermass's leaving without a word, the first time. "But then why the other times?"

"The kiss was a mistake. I hadn't intended...I thought my control was better than that." Childermass is looking tired again. "I still hadn't sorted things out and I couldn't have explained it to you. Came back too early, I suppose. As for the second time, that was also an error in judgement. I should have stopped you, but it wasn't what I  _ wanted  _ to do. Til you made your offer, and I remembered."

"I compromise your judgement?" says Segundus in a small voice.

Childermass sighs heavily. "It's very tiresome."

There's something awfully thrilling in disrupting the control of someone who always presents, to you, the appearance of razor-sharp acumen and unshakeable insouciance. Although that picture has been somewhat disturbed lately. "I really am sorry," he says.

Childermass shakes his head. "I'll not have you chiding yourself for my mistakes."

"Then it was a mistake," says Segundus, his heart sinking. "I suppose--oh, it sounds very selfish. I am glad you told me, and relieved. I can be your friend, and leave you in peace."

"What I'd like is a bit more exploratory than that," says Childermass, with a wry look.

Segundus's toes curl at the mental images this brings up--Childermass's hands wandering slowly over his body, Segundus's mouth all over Childermass's, testing to see what avenue is best to elict each sound that Childermass is capable of producing. He says, "I don't want to misinterpret you again."

"I'd like to keep trying," says Childermass. "But I'll need you to go slower. I need to...adjust."

Segundus's eyes feel very wide. He can't stop thinking about the idea of Childermass  _ adjusting _ , of Childermas in his bed unfolding a little bit at a time, coaxing him out slowly with days between attempts. "I would be honoured," he says, which doesn't quite seem to cover it.

Childermass makes a slightly awkward bow. Segundus says, on impulse, "You don't have to, anymore, do you? I would hate to think of you near starving."

Childermass laughs a little. "No. I'm well-placed, as it happens. Anyroad I'm too old for that game now--at the time I was young and pretty."

"I think you're pretty," says Segundus, feeling suddenly shy, made shy by Childermass's laugh and Childermass's awkwardness and Childermass's vulnerability. He expects Childermass to laugh again, or smirk, or perhaps to be angry with him, but he shakes his head.

"Mr Segundus," he says, "Your taste is as singular as the rest of you." 

"Oh," says Segundus, "You could call me John, couldn't you? That is to say, aren't we friends? That is, I think of myself as your friend, I do not know whether you think of me as yours--"

"I do," says Childermass. "I thought we had established that. But I can't call you John."

Segundus says "Oh," again.

"It would not be fair, because I could not invite you to call me John. I am not prepared for that yet."

Segundus wonders whether he ought to ask why, or whether that would drive Childermass further away. There is still a hint of the furtive about Childermass, and Segundus is still not cured of the fear that he will ride away again without a moment's notice. He ventures a lie: "I wouldn't mind."

Childermass gives him a long look. "It would not be polite."

"You have never seemed like a man with much regard for politeness."

"Not to those who do not deserve it. But you have finer feelings."

Is this a compliment? Segundus can't tell. "I apologise for bringing it up," he says, retreating into stiffness.

Childermass leans forward, and kisses him with great care. "I cannot invite you to call me John, because the name has associations at present that I have not dispelled. They are not your doing or your responsibility. Possibly, one day, they  _ will  _ be dispelled. At that time you are invited to call me by my Christian name, if you still so wish."

Segundus, faintly dizzy, says "I could call you some other thing, until then?"

"Such as what?" 

"I could call you, for instance, my love," says Segundus. "Not in public. Of course. But I wouldn't use your name in public in any case, for safety--"

"That," say Childermass softly, "would be wholly your choice."

"And then you could call me John, because there would be no question of politeness."

"If you wanted, certainly."

Segundus makes a frustrated noise. "Childermass, we are in private. I ask you to  _ please  _ stop being so reserved and tell me what you think!"

Childermass is smiling, a little absurdly. Segundus doesn't know if he's ever seen him smile like that, which makes him feel rather fine. He likes Childermass's smile, the crookness of it, the cautiousness of it.

"You'll have to forgive me," he says, "It's the habit of many long years. I will try to break it, John."

-

They get on with forming new habits.

At the moment, Segundus is particularly enjoying this process.

Childermass's hand on Segundus is gentle, light, teasing, as he rubs softly. "Never ceases to wrongfoot me," he says, low in Segundus's ear. The length of his body behind Segundus, holding him against the wall, is at one and the same time comforting and overwhelming.

Segundus, wrapped up tight by anticipation, made desperate by a touch too faint to be satisfying, says "What?"

"You." Childermass kisses the shell of Segundus's ear with a disarming tenderness. "You never seem to bother to hide."

"I am a very--ah!--a very discreet man--"

"Aye, but for all that you wear your heart on your sleeve--" the voice in his ear goes darker and warmer--"And you make a great deal of noise."

Segundus flushes further, which he had not thought possible, and arches up a little. "You didn't seem to notice before--"

"I thought you must have some subterfuge at play," says Childermass. His hand presses a little harder, and Segundus gasps. "I kept trying to read in meanings that weren't there. All magicians lie, except you, apparently."

"I've lied," says Segundus. "You've seen my body." Right at this moment he'd confess any sin to impress Childermass and also to get him to go faster.

"I'm seeing it right now, but a secret isn't the same as a lie." Childermass slows down even more, his hand moving lazily now.

"Damn you," says Segundus, as a general summation of his current feelings.

Whether it has the intended effect or not, the end result is that Childermass does speed up, and Segundus twists, trying to get closer, wordlessly seeking, and Childermass's other hand is wandering down his body, across his chest, down his leg, oh God, why must he be so dressed--

"What was that you said about pretty, before" Childermass murmurs. "You're one to talk."

Segundus says something that's mostly jumbled vowels, although there might be an n in there, or an s. If he had the capacity to be embarrassed, he would be, but it's hard with Childermass's dark eyes on him, studying him, pinning him. He turns his head away, then can't stop himself from looking back as Childermass watches him carefully and coaxes him farther, farther, farther.

He's caught between the desire to push into Childermass's hand and the desire to press back against Childermass, who is now kissing his neck, feather-light against the increasing roughness of his hand. Segundus cries out, trapped, glorying in it.

He comes to his end with one hand bracing himself against the wall and the other over Childermass's.

It takes several seconds for him to fully return to his proper state of dignity. The comfort of the body behind him, one hand now wrapped gently around his waist and fingers twined with his, keeps him from feeling too ashamed of the spectacle he's made of himself.

A little blearily he turns, kisses Childermass suddenly and gracelessly. Childermass murmurs faintly and brushes a wayward strand of hair from his forehead.

"Can I--for you--" says Segundus, not  _ quite _ back to his full powers of speech.

Childermass shakes his head. "Not today. Some other time, perhaps."

"Gladly," says Segundus. His head is swimming. It feels like a very long time since he's done that with anyone, despite his earlier adventures with Childermass. Perhaps it's different now they've talked about it.

"I'll leave you to your bed," says Childermass kissing his temple. The gesture is so delicate, so gentle, that it affects Segundus nearly as powerfully as what they've just finished.

"You could," says Segundus shyly, "accompany me to my bed. There's enough room."

Childermass looks at him thoughtfully. "Is that what you want?"

"I'd like it very much."

-

Segundus bestirs himself earlier than usual, with the excellent reason of Childermass kissing him slowly and patiently into wakefulness. There's that tenderness again, that gentleness, the feeling that Childermass has some wariness of disconcerting him. Segundus remembers sleepily about the finer feelings, and wonders if Childermass has blotted out the memory of being pushed into a wall.

Well. He hasn't. He turns himself over and hooks one leg over Childermass's, pulling him closer. Childermass is wholly naked, because he had not had a nightshirt, nor had he wished to go to his room and fetch one for fear of drawing attention. Segundus had offered a dressing gown--the room gets chilly at night, as most rooms do in this house--but Childermass had just said that he didn't feel the cold easily. So there's a great deal of skin for Segundus to run his hands over; Childermass's back, much less broad than it looks when he's in his greatcoat, is a pleasant canvas. He traces lines slowly as they kiss, feeling the faint scars, the knobs of spine, the dip of the lower back. 

Childermass puts an arm around his waist, pulling him closer. Lazily, Segundus sweeps his hand up and down, twines bits of Childermass's long dark hair through his fingers. He relishes the sound of Childermass's quickening breath, the restless little motions he makes when Segundus strikes something sensitive.

"Haven't you got classes to teach?" says Childermass, with a long, slow, dragging kiss.

"Not for three hours yet," says Segundus. "You've woken me early. With the purest of motives, no doubt."

"Hm," says Childermass, burying what might have been a word in another kiss. It's pointedly rough, as if to show precisely how pure his motives are. Segundus makes a noise that's half laugh and half moan.

Childermass's hands creep under his nightshirt. "Cold," complains Segundus, nevertheless arching into the touch. 

"I'll have to warm them," says Childermass, sounding amused. Segundus's eyes are shut, so he can't see the smile on Childermass's face; nevertheless, he's certain it's there.

Childermass rucks the nightshirt up, as far as it'll go, then makes an impatient noise and pulls it off. Segundus helps him, obligingly taking his hands from Childermass's back for just long enough to raise his arms. Then they are on equal terms; the morning air is chilly, but he stops for long enough to look at Childermass for a while.

"What is it?" asks Childermass.

"I haven't seen all of you before, in the light. Only in the dark."

Childermass shakes his head. "Not much to look at."

"I disagree," says Segundus. "May I?" He takes hold of the covers and, at Childermass's nod, he pulls them back.

To Segundus, it always feels exceptionally special to be able to see a lover's body, in full daylight and complete exposure, for the first time. Because Childermass has for so long been an enigma, this sense of occasion is enhanced. It is not that Childermass is particularly of the Greek-statue persuasion. He has broad shoulders, but he's thin, thin almost to worrying Segundus. There are scars here and there, and the knees are knobbly, and Segundus feels very, deeply tender. He reaches out his hand with very great care, and traces Childermass's collarbone, running his finger over the dip between.

"Had your fill?" says Childermass.

"No, but it's a cold morning. I'll have my fill some other day. Come, under the blankets."

"I don't feel the cold much," Childermass says.

"So you keep saying, but your skin is cold, so I had better warm you."

Childermass laughs. "And no doubt you have very proper and correct ideas of how to do that."

"Mm," says Segundus, burrowing down behind Childermass and wrapping an arm around his waist. "May I touch you?"

"If you like."

Segundus bites his shoulder for the casualness of the reply. "You're incorrigible. Just for that I shouldn't."

"What, do you want me to beg?"

"I wouldn't be averse to it. I could make you. But not today." He skims one hand up Childermass's stomach, taking in the texture of the hair there, making note of how the skin feels under his fingers. Childermass draws in a quick breath as Segundus traces a line down one hipbone, then runs his fingers with nails back up. 

Kissing softly along Childermass's shoulders, he lets the hand wander down to his thighs, delighting in the muscle there, in the softness of the skin on the insides of them. Childermass moves a little, pressing tighter against Segundus's stomach. Turnabout is fair play, thinks Segundus idly, trailing his fingers up and up to the waist, along the ribs. Childermass's eyes are closed, relaxed, though they tighten as Segundus runs the flat of one hand down his stomach.

He's touched Childermass before, but this has the feeling of a sanctioned affair, something with official status. It's finally okay to  _ want  _ to touch, to take his time about exploring. He strokes softly at first, listens to the pace of Childermass's breathing, varies his pace and motion a little to see the effects. He relishes the power of slowing down when Childermass wiggles, or speeding up to reward him for stillness.

As the breathing becomes more frantic, as noises start spilling out, Segundus pulls Childermass closer, arm tight around his waist. His hand wanders up to Childermass's chest, brushing over, lightly and then more firmly over parts that seem sensitive.

Gradually, though, Childermass seems to stop responding naturally. He looks relaxed--he hadn't before--, and the tenor of his movements change, become mechanical. There's something staged about it, and the unlooked-for shift unsettles Segundus.

"Is everything alright, my love?" he asks, coming to a halt.

Childermass shudders, and seems to return in some way. He blinks, and shakes his head.

"You seemed different," says Segundus.

"Things went strange. Too much...going on. Gets overwhelming, and then it's unpleasant. The only way I know how to prevent it is...not be present, just let it go on by itself." Childermass grimaces. "Didn't think about how it'd look to you."

Segundus frowns. "But I don't want you to make an effort to get through things for me."

"I know," says Childermass. "I'm sorry."

Segundus kisses Childermass's shoulder softly. "What can I do? Would you rather leave off?"

"Just give me a minute. It'll pass. Then you can carry on again." 

This sounds alarmingly passive for Childermass. "Would it help if I gave you back some control?" says Segundus.

"Depends on what you mean."

Segundus takes Childermass's own hand, and closes it around himself. Then he puts his own hand around it, loosely. He nudges Childermass, encouraging him to move, and drapes one leg around Childermass's, so they're as close as they can be. "Like that. So you know what's going to happen, at least partly."

Childermass nods. "Better."

Segundus focuses on the rest of Childermass's body again; he kisses as far down Childermass's spine as he can reach without significantly disturbing their position. Gradually, Chidermass starts coming apart again, starts making his barely-audible sounds, soft moans bitten off, tiny gasps. Segundus's fingers twine with his, their movements together faster, and a shiver runs through him. Segundus kisses his neck, whispering in his ear, nonsense about how beautiful Childermass is, things he'd be embarrassed of but they're all true. As Childermass finishes, he whispers  _ John _ , and Segundus sighs and holds him close through it.

Afterwards, Segundus wants to fall back asleep, but he really should get up and prepare for the day. Childermass looks languid, which suits him. "You're very fortunate that you don't have to give any lectures at nine in the morning," says Segundus, sternly.

"One of the advantage of my new life is the ability to rise late," says Childermass, stretching. "Vinculus gets angry if I try to study him before noon. How am I to leave your room without being detected?"

"Wait until lectures begin. No-one ought to be in the halls, but if you're dressed, you can stroll out of my parlour and pretend we were having a conference. Perhaps I should make up something to consult you on."

Childermass smiles lazily. "Teaching your students the Cards of Marseilles, perhaps?"

"Not yet," says Segundus. "We'll see."

He's mostly dressed when Childermass says, "John?"

"Yes?" says Segundus softly, turning back around. Childermass's brow is wrinkled by a frown, his hair falling over his face, and Segundus can't help but be struck by how beautiful he is, how much he looks like everything Segundus has ever wanted.

"It will take...time," Childermass says. "For all of this to even out. I am afraid it will not be fixed at once. I may seem contrary again, or pull away from you. If you'll have patience, I will come back."

Segundus crosses the room, and sits on the bed. He takes Childermass's hand, and as he does, he sees the days stretched out in front of them. Some will be difficult because of Childermass, and some will be difficult because of Segundus himself; sometimes what they need will conflict. But all the same, a future with this in it seems joyfully, vastly preferable to one without it.

"We have time," he says, and kisses the palm of Childermass's hand.


End file.
